This Dungeon Grew Mushrooms

Scarecrow Abyss, eastern side.

At the border between the dwarven mountains and the elven forest, a newly formed settlement was slowly taking shape along an ancient road.

In the past, the Scarecrow Abyss was notorious for its strange mechanisms, far more dangerous than ordinary dungeons.

In other places, if adventurers were injured, they could still try to retreat the way they came.

But here, once an injury slowed them down, they often didn’t even make it back to the boundary before slipping once more into those overlapping, interwoven spaces—never to return.

And the Abyss’s limited harvests weren’t nearly enough to justify such extreme risk.

Thus, unless answering a specific commission or tempted by an unusually high bounty, very few adventurers lingered here.

With so few footprints, no adventurer hub like the former Silentwind Town[‘Yafang Town’] could ever take root.

For many years, only an elven patrol squad and a dwarven garrison stood watch here, defending against demon tides and regularly cleaning up curses that leaked from the Abyss.

But times were different now.

Today, groups upon groups of humans crossed the Scarecrow Abyss to flee the war.

Although the elves still closed their borders, refusing all outsiders, the dwarven mountains did not turn away these human refugees.

And every group that successfully crossed the Abyss carried at least one puji without exception—a talisman of protection for that treacherous passage.

As the number of passersby increased, this once-neglected boundary land began to show new life.

Crude wooden inns rose, offering rest to travelers who had marched for days.

Fresh food from far-off regions was sold at steep prices to the starving refugees who had been gnawing on dry rations.

And of course, the most important trade—puji sales and buybacks!

This once barren stretch of land was reviving with rough but vibrant energy.

Inside a tavern, the air was thick with the smell of ale and smoke.

The wooden tables weren’t full, but the blend of chatter, clinking mugs, and occasional laughter gave the place a lively atmosphere.

Most conversations circled around two things:

the escalating war in the north—and…

“Did you hear? Another group fell in the Abyss.”

A weathered man gulped down his drink and set his mug heavily on the table.

His thin companion hushed his voice.

“Seven people, the whole lot! The team behind them saw it clearly—right in front of them, and then whoosh—gone. It’s been days now. No word. They’re done for.”

The first man shook his head with a sigh.

“If they weren’t prepared to drop into the deep layers, how could they climb back up? And now there’s a swarm of cursed slimes down there—worse than before.”

“How’d they fall so suddenly? Didn’t they have a puji?” a young man at the next table blurted, puzzled.

The older man snorted.

“Why else? They bought fake puji! Those scammers prey on refugees who can’t tell the difference, grab normal puji from the area and claim they came from the dungeon.”

Both sides of the Abyss now had improvised settlements, but with no official oversight, things were chaotic—no one enforced laws against such schemes.

“All that for saving a bit of transport cost?” the young man exclaimed. “This is life and death!”

The table erupted in laughter.

“Kid, first time out in the world, huh? Forget fifty silver coins—some folk’ll risk your life for two!”

Amid their laughter, the tavern door creaked open.

A ragged swordsman stood framed by the sunset, his posture straight even through exhaustion.

As he stepped inside, the noise in the tavern gradually faded into murmurs.

The young man blinked in confusion.

“Why’s everyone suddenly—”

“Idiot!” the older man hissed. “Look at the corrosion marks on his armor. Not just leather—the metal too. That’s someone who clawed his way out of the deep layers!”

The young man sucked in a breath and stayed silent.

The swordsman dragged himself to the counter and slapped down two silver coins.

“A room. And food.”

The innkeeper eyed the coins, opened his mouth to say they weren’t enough—but one glance at the man’s condition shut him right up.

This battered traveler was none other than Fifteen, the personal disciple of the sword saint, Elvian.

And the reason he looked like this—

He had also bought a fake puji!

He knew nothing about the scams.

He was in a hurry, heard that puji made crossing the Abyss safer, thought it sounded amazing—

So he went to buy one.

Who knew there were real and fake ones?

So he plummeted all the way into the deep layers and had to carve his way out with his sword alone.

He carried an urgent mission, but for now, he desperately needed rest.

After devouring his meal, Fifteen collapsed onto the inn bed and fell asleep instantly.

At dawn the next day, before sunlight broke through the mist, he was already on the road again.

Going opposite the stream of travelers heading toward the dwarven mountains, he walked alone toward the Elven Forest.

Back when the sword saint was ambushed and gravely wounded, when the army retreated to Three Peaks City and the demons hadn’t yet completed the encirclement, Fifteen had been ordered to break out.

He carried a mission of utmost importance—

to request a certain elven artifact for his master.

On the outskirts of the Elven Forest, he made no effort to hide.

Predictably, the rangers spotted him quickly.

Two arrows pinned the soil at his toes—

the elves’ standard warning.

But instead of retreating, Fifteen stepped forward and tried to explain his purpose.

This reckless act angered the hidden rangers. They didn’t even listen—after all, every intruder had some excuse ready!

Fifteen was forced to draw his sword.

Within a few breaths, the entire squad was defeated at his feet.

He had held back, ensuring they were only temporarily incapacitated.

But the scuffle had already alerted others.

Just as the situation seemed set to spiral out of control, a familiar figure walked from beneath the trees.

Eko, the former royal guard captain—now commander of the rangers—raised a hand, halting his subordinates’ arrows.

He had once sparred with the sword saint; of course he recognized the disciple.

Though he harbored no fondness for Elvian’s sharp tongue, Eko had no intention of bullying a junior.

Upon hearing Fifteen’s request to see the elven royal court, Eko decided to escort him personally. With him present, no one would worry about ulterior motives.

Along the way, Fifteen’s eyes kept drifting toward the top of Eko’s head.

A puji sat there, bouncing in sync with each of Eko’s steps.

He wanted to ask about it but felt it improper—so he held his questions in, nearly bursting.

When he stepped onto the spiraling tree-path of Isildorin, he was even more stunned.

The elven capital was filled with puji—far more than when he last visited.

Their sudden abundance left him with an odd feeling he couldn’t pin down.

But there was no time to ponder.

In the deepest chamber of the palace, on a throne woven of moonvine, sat Galadriel Morges, regent of the elves.

Fifteen knelt on one knee.

“Honored Lady Morges, I come under the command of my master, Elvian. I humbly request the loan of Lunarshade.”

At his words, every elf present turned their gaze toward the same spot—

the sword leaning quietly in the moonlit glow beside the throne.